


Poor Table Manners

by OverMyFreckledBody



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood Gulch Chronicles, M/M, Popsicles, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Season/Series 06, Teasing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, a very frustrated grif
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 22:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverMyFreckledBody/pseuds/OverMyFreckledBody
Summary: It’s not. It’s not a food specific thing (though it wouldn’t be surprising if it was). It’s just that it tends to happenaroundfood for the most part.In truth, it’s more accurate to say it’s aSimmonsthing. And even just thinking something as cheesy as that makes Grif want to stab himself in the eyes. Both of them.Ugh. He can’t believe he’s become this gross.Goddamn it, Simmons.





	Poor Table Manners

**Author's Note:**

> this idea would not leave me alone. and then i accidentally left it open and a friend read part of it. fml
> 
> if one line of dialogue sounds familiar, it's because [this is what inspired part of this fic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ax05u8g_66M&feature=youtu.be&t=11m2s)
> 
> yup.

It’s not. It’s not a food specific thing (though it wouldn’t be surprising if it was). It’s just that it tends to happen _around_ food for the most part.

In truth, it’s more accurate to say it’s a _Simmons_ thing. And even just thinking something as cheesy as that makes Grif want to stab himself in the eyes. Both of them.

Ugh. He can’t believe he’s become this gross.

Goddamn it, Simmons.

* * *

It’s too fucking early for this.

And by this, Grif means Simmons sucking his own fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t even know what Simmons spilled on himself, nor does he care, because again: Simmons’ fingers and Simmons’ mouth. Together.

Grif finds himself so captivated that he’s even stopped eating his food as he stares across the table, frozen. His fork remains in stuck in the air, hovering near his face. The only part of him that moves at all is his fist, gripping tighter and tighter around the utensil as he watches Simmons curl his tongue around a fingertip.

He pulls it from his mouth, cheeks hollowing as it slides out, before he gives a different finger the same treatment. Grif is so fucking thankful that if – and he’s _not_, but _if_ – he was drooling, it would be presumed to be because of the food and because he’s _Grif_.

“For God’s sake, Simmons,” Donut cries as he comes into the room, and both of their heads snap sharply at his reprimand. “Go wash your hands and stop sticking dirty things in your mouth!”

Simmons starts to stammer – _oh, fuck off, Donut!_ – flushing as he realizes just what he was doing and where he was. He stands to go do as Donut told him. His eyes surprisingly flicking to meet Grif’s, but Grif already has himself together; fork already scooping up another portion of food, expression in what he knows to be an excellent poker face.

Simmons scowls, embarrassed to have been witnessed even if Grif isn’t making fun of him for it, and turns on his heel. Grif is amused to see that the backs of his ears are a funny shade of maroon.

* * *

No one is all that sure how, but Donut has somehow gotten his hands on the supplies to make popsicles out here. Of course, when he makes some, they’re all red, even if they’re different flavors of strawberry and cherry (and a couple of them are mixed together?).

They are, of course, all the same shade and there is no way to tell which is which. Except for a secret batch of orange that he hands over to Grif with a secretive grin and over-the-top wink when Sarge has left the room, two popsicles in his own hands.

As soon as they’re outside, he and Simmons wordlessly swap their popsicles. Grif has never been all that fond of the orange flavor, anyway.

As they relax, Simmons quickly finds himself preoccupied with watching the base. It’s as if he’s worried that they’ll be noticed and called back to do something dumb, as they usually are. At least he isn’t keeping a vigilant watch over the Blues, believing they’d attack or some other such nonsense.

The day those fucks actually do any work is the day Grif goes on a diet.

What Grif _really_ notices is that Simmons has yet to actually bite a chunk off his popsicle. So far, he’s just held the tip of it in his mouth as he stares off. He’s clearly thinking about something, and if he doesn’t pull himself from it soon, then his popsicle will become a sticky, syrupy mess all over his fingers…

And really, Grif’s wires must be crossed from always wearing his orange armor, but his brain supplies him with the realization that the popsicle – the one that rests, so unassuming, in Simmons’ mouth – is _also_ orange, and wow, would he look at that? It kind of looks like it could be…

“Dude, are you sucking on that?” He asks, because really. What the hell is Simmons doing? Is he not even going to eat it? What a waste. (Except, not entirely. The show was kinda worth it.)

The problem is that his question didn’t come across as mocking as he wanted it to. It’s genuine and for his sake – and the sake of their friendship, or whatever it is – it really, really shouldn’t be.

Simmons turns to face him, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion, and the popsicle slips from his mouth. Grif watches the way it gently tugs against Simmons’ bottom lip as it goes. He swallows, despite not have any flavored ice in his mouth.

“Put it back–” Simmons frowns at him, but he can’t help himself, keeps going, “Put it back in your mouth.”

He swallows again, his own popsicle forgotten, and Simmons continues to stare at him with such a quizzical expression on his face. But.

But.

But, he slowly raises his hand to take the popsicle back into his mouth once more. Grif licks his lips, watching, and –

“LADIES! THIS IS NO TIME FOR HAIR-BRAIDING; GET YOUR ASSES BACK OVER HERE! FRONT AND CENTER, ON THE DOUBLE!”

While the both of them jerk, startled out of their moment, Simmons is the only to drop his popsicle in his haste to stand up. Grif groans as he does, but it’s drowned out by Simmons kissing ass with a shaky but apologetic shout of his affirmation. Grif follows after him, in much less of a hurry.

_Fuck_.

Fucking goddamn it all.

* * *

The next time that Simmons does his evil, evil things to food, it’s just him and Grif at the mess table. This happens sometimes, when it’s late, and Donut goes to get his, as he says, “beauty rest,” and Sarge decides he’s had enough of them and goes to make his diabolical plans outside by the mechanic parts.

Simmons has a bit of sauce just outside the edge of his mouth, and Grif has been watching him try to lick it off for the past twenty seconds. Twenty seconds of watching that pink, pink tongue peek out from his lips and dart in and out, swiping and trailing all over the side of his cheek and lip. He’s got this look of concentration, too, a slight pinching of his eyebrows that shows how focused he is on getting this (not even all that tasty) sauce off with his tongue.

It’s killing Grif.

“Simmons,” he blurts, and his voice is hoarse. Shit.

Simmons pauses to look up at him, tongue still outstretched. There is a brief lull between Grif’s words as he struggles to think of what to even say.

“What,” he tries to mock, but it’s weak and he knows it, “Are you allergic to napkins now? Come on.”

At this, Simmons just rolls his eyes, not bothering to get flustered this time, but he does reach for a napkin. Grif returns to his food (or, at the very least, the appearance of eating it, even if his mind is still elsewhere), sending a fleeting glance back at Simmons. It’s only out of the corner of his eye, but he swears that he sees the faintest edge of a smirk on Simmons’ lips, just before it’s hidden by the napkin.

_No. _

He couldn’t have noticed Grif’s… thing, could he? No, surely not.

Surely.

He glances at Simmons again, but the look from a second ago is gone, and Simmons is beginning to collect all his dishes to be put in the sink.

Nah. Grif is sure he doesn’t know anything.

(Though, the idea of him finding out is _definitely_ going to haunt Grif’s sleep for at least a _week_.)


End file.
